


That's just how it is

by Idontknow1311



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Spoilers, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 19:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17269535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idontknow1311/pseuds/Idontknow1311
Summary: “John, if there is a god,” said Arthur, “he’s got a sick sense of humor.”Life just isn't fair sometimes and that's just how it is.





	That's just how it is

John could always tell when Arthur was back.

 

When he was younger and not allowed on the bigger jobs, he would sit at the edge of camp with a rifle in his hands.

 

Dutch, Arthur and Bill would head out into the night, a thunder of hooves fading into nothingness. Once the rest of the camp had settled in for the night, he would grab his rifle and silently move to the edge of the clearing.

 

He hated waiting.

 

At the time he hadn’t thought about it much. He was young and wanted adventure so he would wait until they returned. He’d be their fierce defender from any pursuers (not that any had ever made it as far as the camp). His reasons for being out there in the dark with the pit of anxiety in his stomach was obvious to him. He wanted to be one of the men. He wanted to be the first to see them home. He wanted to show them that he could last the night like they did without complaint.

 

As he grew older, the simplicity of his actions faded away. He felt that same brimming anxiety not just when the group rode out. He would find himself moving to autopilot only for one person. A silent vigil for only one rider. Bill, Dutch and Pearson could ride out and he’d hardly notice. But the minute Arthur walked towards his horse, he’d be looking in his direction and then looking as hard as he could in any other direction.

 

When he caught on to his actions, the uncomfortable feelings it gave him made him stop his night watch. But he couldn’t sleep, no matter what he would do. So he would lay awake in his tent, often on his side, staring and waiting.

 

He knew the sound of every horse but most importantly, he knew the sound of _his_ horse.

 

When he had returned to the gang after his year of wandering, he had hated himself for doing it again that first night. Despite all the running and the time, he had still lain awake that night when Arthur had left. And when Arthur had returned in a few short hours, his anger at John burned off in a harsh sweat, John had still been awake and listening.

 

Eventually he had wielded his stubbornness like a weapon, ignoring the thoughts and feelings and either drinking them away or heading off himself to the town for a distraction. Despite that, he couldn’t shrug the habit of listening for that horse.

 

The horse didn’t canter in. Usually Arthur arrived like a tornado, flying in from the wild like the law was hot on his trail (and it usually was). But Arthur was arriving less and less like that. Mostly, it was a slow walk in and a soft disturbing wheezing that the man tried to hide.

 

The horse stopped and John tried not to breathe so as to pick up all the sounds.

 

There was the sound of heavy boots on earth as the man swung out of the saddle. The hardly audible sound of his voice, _“you did a real good job today, boy._ ” A gentle nicker as a reply.

 

The way he talked to horses always made his neck burn and his feet feel numb.

 

“God damn it,” he heard the man say under his breath. “God damn O’Driscoll’s.”

 

He sat up, recognising a tinge of pain and weariness in that voice.

 

In the darkness of the tent, he could see out but nothing could see in. So he waited, still as the night, until Arthur crossed the clearing to his own spot. There was a funny gait to his walk that seemed like trouble. It would take a truly horrific wound to get the man limping and thankfully it wasn’t that.

 

He listened as the man rummaged around in his chest. He picked up the sound of bottles clinking, tonics splashing and clothes being pushed aside. A heavy thud of the chest lid and then the walking of Arthur into the forest nearby.

 

John let out his breath and listened until the footsteps faded.

 

Arthur was a private man. He always had been. Countless times he had seen the man take his bandages and solutions out to the forest. Thinking back to his time after the wolves, he understand that primal need to be alone and away from prying eyes. Not that he got that chance.

 

John looked over at Abigail and Jack, thankful to see them deep in slumber. He slipped out of his bed roll, trying to make as little sound as possible. Once outside and in the clearing, he could spy the faint glow of a lantern in the distance. He breathed in deeply and made for it.

 

He knew that Arthur would hear him long before John could see him. So once he was free from waking the others, he didn’t bother sneaking along at a snail’s pace. As he moved closer, the light became stronger, illuminating a shadowy figure sitting on a tree root.

 

Finally he got close enough to see the piercing stare of Arthur, watching him warily like a wolf.

 

“You lost, Marston?” Said Arthur, his voice hoarse and gruff.

 

He smiled, putting his hands up as a sign of surrender and peace, “Just came to see what all the noise was about.”

 

Arthur made a sound, similar to a low grunt of amusement. “Not as quiet as I thought I was.”

 

“If you’re deaf then sure you was.”

 

The other man made the sound again. Arthur sighed, a sound deep and weary and way too old for a man of his age.

 

“What d’you want, Marston?”

 

John didn’t answer, moving closer. He could smell the familiar scents of gun oil, sweat and horse. It wasn’t bad to him. It was just Arthur. None of them smelled like flowers in the wild but there wasn’t a bad smell to them either. It was just the smell of livin’.

 

“You need help?” John asked eventually, sitting on a root adjacent. It was just close enough that he could touch him easily. He could see Arthur stiffen slightly, wary about the new presence. He tried to conceal a smile. Just like a Mustang, he had a wild, savage and brutal streak. But mostly he was skittish and wary.

 

“It’s nothing I can’t deal with,” said the man, proceeding on with his ministrations.

 

John watched as Arthur rolled up his sleeve to reveal a weeping and fresh wound. It looked deeper than he liked and looked bad enough to have come from something blunt. The arm itself was thinner than he remembered, the veins standing prominent like thin cords of rope.

 

“Jesus,” he ground out, looking at the nasty wound.

 

He watched as the man unscrewed a bottle with one hand and his teeth. Without ceremony he dumped the contents on the wound, a hiss escaping his tightly pursed lips.

 

“Can I help you, Marston?” Growled Arthur with annoyance as he flipped his arm, rustling with the supplies to his side. Some of the tonic dripped from the fresh wound and onto his pants and the ground.

 

“You gonna need to sew that up, you know?”

 

Arthur winced, pulling out some linen that he had shredded, “what would be the point of that?”

 

“How about not dyin’? I’ve seen grown men keel over from wounds they’ve left open. You got to take care of that or it’ll get into your blood.”

 

“It’s just a scratch, John. Ain’t nothing to worry about.”

 

John didn’t miss that he had used his first name. He had learned that the switch happened when Arthur felt comfortable. When his guard was beginning to come down.

 

“I seem to remember someone dragging me over to Mrs Grimshaw saying somethin’ quite different about leaving wounds like that …”

 

“Yeah well,” mumbled Arthur with a small smile, “I wasn’t gonna spend my time nursing you.”

 

“So you gonna let me sew you up?”

 

“It ain’t worth the effort.”

 

“Arthur… you can’t just leave it to fester.”

 

Arthur paused for a moment, bringing his eyes to meet his. In the dim lantern light, his eyes shone. John felt goosebumps travel up his back, revelling in the rare chance to take in the man’s features fully. His bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks were more prominent in the night time shadows. He looked haggard and worn and his expression spoke of a man pissed off at life. But John couldn’t help how he felt. There was a part of him that felt right when he looked at the man. Everything about him was something he wanted to be next to, no matter what state he was in.

 

But he knew what Arthur was trying to say to him by not answering. The unspoken intention surrounded them and spoke louder than any words ever could.

 

_What’s the point of trying to live if you don’t care about dying?_

 

The air felt thick and the sounds of the night somehow incredibly loud and unnaturally soft.

 

Keeping eye contact, he reached across, placing a hand on Arthur’s. The man stiffened and looked away from his eyes, staring at the ground with intensity. John felt his heart thump wildly at the color of Arthur’s cheeks as they faintly flushed.

 

It was a brazen move and one that he surprised himself at.

 

“You’ve gotta take care of yourself, Arthur.”

 

He gripped the man’s hand, running his hands over the callouses that lined his palm. Arthur remained silent, his face drawn and deeply worn. John felt like at any second the mood could switch. When wrangling a Mustang, you had to be careful when close. He felt his breath hitch when Arthur squeezed his hand back. A small, almost missed gesture that made him dizzy and breathless.

 

A wheezing cough started in Arthur’s throat. He could see that the man was trying to suppress it and beat it back down. At first it seemed like something he could fight but soon the small coughs were escaping his mouth and draining the blood from his face.

 

“It’s okay,” John said as the man started to cough with a ferocity, his whole body wracked by spasms as he tried to contain the ferocity of the fit. “Just let it run its course.”

 

Arthur bent over, his mouth pointed at the ground as he coughed and coughed and coughed. He could hear the wetness of it, as if the man’s lungs were drowning in something.

 

Now bent over, his hand still gripping John’s, he could hear it subside slightly and a fight begin to take in deep lungfuls of air. Hearing him gasp for breath physically hurt John to hear. It seemed like no matter how many breaths he took, the air just wouldn’t get in.

 

He wrapped his other arm around the man’s head. Bent over together, he brought his head close Arthur’s with his mouth near his ear.

  
“Just breath, Arthur. In and out… In…. and out… “

 

The man tried to draw in breath again, dissolving into another wheezing fit of coughs.

 

“Again… In and…. Out. Just focus on my breathing here, Arthur. In and out.”

 

The man took a deep resolute breath, the air sounding as if was this time really filling his chest.

 

“You got it, partner. Just keep the rhythm going.”

 

He stayed there, his mouth so close to the other man that he could feel his hair on his cheek. His hand now solidly locked in a vice like grip as Arthur defeated the fit and gained back his breath.

 

They sat together, until his back hurt and the sounds of the night returned. He could feel the man’s reluctance to unlock their embrace. He felt just as reluctant to leave, the moment being something he never would have thought he could have.

 

Before he had left the gang, he and Arthur had shared a closeness that had nearly driven him crazy. He had tied himself up with a woman and yet (a part of him he hated to even acknowledge) had never felt right about it. The only times he had felt right were next to Arthur.

 

Everything about him drove him crazy. Gone was his childhood hero worshipping. He had developed a deep and debilitating obsession with the man. Every chance he got to be by his side just fed his problem. Arthur seemed unaware of his true feelings, even if he sometimes got a bit too touchy or stared a bit too close. Yet there was just enough gentleness in their friendship to feed the beast. He didn’t dare admit it to himself but he never gave up on the idea that something could happen. When and how wasn’t clear but between them was an electricity that felt like something important.

 

The night he had fled had been the last straw for him, a shame he couldn’t face in the morning. His body pressed again Abigail’s, inside her and around here all at once, he had let his mind be far away. He had spent so long imagining a flat chest and a husky laugh that reality and fantasy had blurred. He had been so absorbed by his charade that he had let a name slip that had caused Abigail to stiffen. A name spoken with such intense need that it was impossible to shrug off. She had slid out from underneath him, not meeting his eyes as she had hastily pulled on her nightgown and fled the tent. He hadn’t even tried to stop her, his own shock paralysing his body and voice.

 

He had sat in silence, his mind still for the first time in a long time. And then he had ran. He couldn’t look at her after that. Face her eyes and her judgement. Have to explain himself sober. It was humiliating on a level he had never felt before. For weeks afterwards he had drunk himself into oblivion. Waking up at night and doing it all again the next day.

 

What had shaken him out of his stupor was receiving a letter at the guest room he had rented. Dirty and squalid, he had taken to sleeping all day and gambling at the nearby saloon all night.

 

Logically, he knew Hosea wouldn’t have let him disappear for good. Dutch and him _knew_ where he was. Not that they would have shared that information with anyone else. They always kept tabs on each other. To have run off without a word was not something Dutch would have let be. They always looked after each other… well, they had back then. It was only a matter of time until someone kicked down his door and asked him to explain himself.

 

And yet, there was no forced entry and bucket of water over the head. Instead, a single sheet of cheap paper with three words written on it.

 

_I_

_forgive_

_you_  

 

The handwriting was messy and seemed unpracticed. He knew it was from Abigail, despite no sign off being on the paper. It had made him sob to read it. His hands shook as he buried his head in his hands.

 

“This thing I got…” said Arthur, his head still bowed but his voice so close to John that it made him internally groan.

 

“Is it bad?” He whispered, feeling some need to be quiet and let the moment be undisturbed.

 

“.... It is.”

 

The words hung over them, like thick clouds of smoke. He felt his eyes prickle, the deep worry within him gnawing away through his gut. He was good at ignoring things. He had ignored his feelings for years and he had ignored the cough for months. But he knew that sooner or later the truth caught up with him.

 

It felt like the moment. The moment he had never been able to imagine properly before. There was something between them that was vulnerable and so gentle that he couldn’t let it just pass.

 

John took a chance, freeing his hand from the vice like grip and using it to lift up Arthur’s head. His heart beat in his chest, strong enough to vibrate his ribs. He breathed in deeply, moving to press his lips against Arthur’s. Finally. Perfectly close to capture him.

 

A hand, strong and assertive on his sternum. Stopping him just inches before. He flashed his eyes to Arthur’s, feeling anxiety and terror crash over him at the pause.

 

“John…,” the other man say quietly, “this thing I got… I can’t…”

 

“It’s okay, Arthur,” he said, his need to close the distance overpowering his mind, “I’ll be fine.”

 

He tried to push against the hand on his sternum that it stayed fast.

 

“I’d never forgive myself if you got this…. I just can’t, John.”

 

An overwhelming rush of anger overtook him. Not anger at Arthur. _Never_ anger at Arthur. But at the world. At God and lady luck and all the other bastards that did this to him. Because Arthur wasn’t saying he didn’t want it. He was saying he couldn’t.

 

He felt tears well in his eyes, his anger so raw at everything. He swallowed, trying to keep his voice even, though it broke as soon as he spoke. “It’d be worth it. For you. It would be.”

 

Arthur’s face softened, an expression he had never seen before. Something that expressed something so fond and gentle that it broke his heart more thoroughly than it had ever been broken before.

 

“I don’t know if it’d give it to you but I can’t risk that. I’d rather die now than do that to you.”

 

He felt like a petulant child, his eyes burning and his teeth grinding together in his mouth. But he had to spit it out. Acknowledge it with as much venom as he could muster.

 

“But it’s not fair.”  


It sounded even brattier out loud but it was so honest that he couldn’t not say it. It wasn’t fair. He had run for a lifetime, never believing anything would happen. To have the chance and yet not be able to was such a bittersweet feeling that he could hardly bear it.

 

That expression again, so gentle and kind and everything he wanted to wake up next to for eternity.

 

“I know, John.”

 

John let his hand fall from Arthur’s jaw, back to his rough hand. Gripping it so tightly that he feared he would break the bones.

 

They sat together, unable to voice their thoughts. Paralysed by the cruelness of the world and the reality of their lives. After all his years of agony he had finally shared his burden. Shared it and had it not pushed away but dealt with tenderly. Yet they were doomed to never act on it.

 

Tears now flowing freely and unacknowledged, John picked up one of the linen rags. In the dim lighting of the lantern, he set to work wrapping up the wound. Taking the opportunity to run his hands over the tanned skin and be close. Arthur watched him all the while, his eyes deeply emotive but his body moving to accommodate the work. When it was done, John placed a light hand on the bandage, as if telling the wound that he had finished.

 

He sat back, feeling shell shocked and unable to move. He had in just one swoop, bared his heart and had it crushed. He was lost. He didn’t know what to do.

 

Arthur pulled out his neck scarf. The same that he pulled over his face as he rode into town to cause grief. He gently dried John’s face and wiped the soft materials over his wet cheeks.

 

“One day,” he said, sighing as he finished his work and put the cloth away again, “I’ll be a hazy memory. With what time I have left… I need your kindness.”

 

John nodded, still feeling shocked. It was how it was. His life was going to end soon. John just had to be patient and let him go because nothing was going to stop it.

 

Arthur let his hand drop and it fell heavily. He stood, breaking away from the moment and from John.

 

“John, if there is a god,” said Arthur, “he’s got a sick sense of humor.”

 

John fought a bitter laugh back, forcing his legs to work and to get him standing. He heard Arthur sigh as he stuffed the tonic and bandages back into his satchel and closed it. Arthur lifted up the lantern, the rusty metal handle squeaking unpleasantly.

 

He heard Arthur sniff, as if to fight away his own emotions. John couldn’t see his eyes properly as the shadows moved from the lantern across his face.

 

Once they reached camp, they stood on the edge of the clearing for a moment. Both could feel it between them, an intensity that would snap like a spell broken once they moved apart. They were reluctant to do so, still drawn to each other by all the things they’d never do together.

 

Eventually they turned away, moving without a word in opposite directions.

 

John lay down on his side, his back to Abigail and his eyes staring unblinkingly at the side of the tent.

 

He didn’t sleep at all, his mind struggling to catch up. He felt his worries gnaw at his stomach like rats at a carcass. His body felt tight and uncomfortable but he was once more paralysed by his mind.

 

Just before dawn, he heard heavy boots and the sound of one horse as it was led away from camp. Soon after the fading sound of a fast moving pace, moving further and further away.

 

He listened until it was quiet once more.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: It's been interesting looking into Arthur's sickness because the amount of coughing and hacking happening would have most definitely infected so many people around him. Even being so close to John in this fic (regardless of the no contact), would have probably been enough to spread it. I can't imagine living with a condition where how it is spread isn't really understood and there is simply no way to stop it. 
> 
> Sorry for any spelling mistakes or errors. I think I need glasses cause it's getting hard to focus recently!


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